pale country
by DirigibleBoyKing
Summary: When Sam disappears from the Bunker one day, Dean takes off looking for him. But there's something strange happening to the world- something they might not want to outlast, this time. Dean/Sam.
1. Chapter 1

It starts small.

Thursday, twelfth April. Fifteen people go missing in New Orleans. No leads.

Monday, twenty-fourth of June, in bone-dry Texas. A huge tree, gnarled, thirty years old at least, leaves green and shivering like laughter. One day there's nothing but two-lane asphalt; the next, sixteen bulky feet of slow-drinking wood, road broken up by roots. However it got there it won't survive- but it does. People are already calling it a miracle. There's a steady stream of pilgrims come to kiss its knots, or at least until the miracle repeats itself in Minnesota. There's rumours of the same thing happening in Britain, in Spain, in Norway, in South Africa.

Wednesday, thirteenth July. Poppies bloom overnight in a field just outside St Louis. Elsewhere, wildflowers turn brown and fragile.

Monday the second of September. The O'Connell family haven't been answering their phones. All doors locked, but there's a little window open; their next-door neighbour bravely climbs through. He kind of expects flies feeding at sticky red pools, blood in the cracks between the flooboards. Instead he finds a tableau; all six O'Connells in the front froom, Kacie and Brian on the beat-up sofa, Brady and Marcus in armchairs, two-year-old Sophie on the floor with her scattered paper dolls. They're all asleep. The T.V blares away. A thread of gossamer connects the tip of Brian's nose to the sofa arm. There's a spider crawling up it.

It's been three days. None of them are dehydrated, malnourished, or inclined to wake. When Sophie is moved, old blossoms fall from her hair.

At first, it's an anomaly. When the case repeats itself in Chicago, in Portland, in Corinth, and when the vanished-without-trace stats are five times what they ought to be, and when poppies bloom for a six-mile stretch along a South Dakota highway, it's an anomaly no longer.

Slowly people are beginning to ask what it all means.


	2. Chapter 2

There's still dirt under Dean's nails. He finds himself staring at them while he splashes water over his face. It had been a good hunt. They'd driven back to the Bunker grimy and smelling of gasoline and although Sam was looking out of the window Dean just knew he'd have that pursed-lips-prissy thing going on. And, okay, perhaps toasting the remains while standing _in_ the coffin hadn't been Dean's best idea ever, but the ghost had been about to knock Sam into a tree and what was he supposed to do?

'You were supposed to let it, dude,' Sam had said tiredly, and got out of the car.

Most nights, they turn the lights off in their separate rooms. Dean'll lie on his back and wait, staring into the darkness, until Sam slides in beside him. Last night he'd waited, kept himself awake for hours, but Sam hadn't come to bed. The bed was empty when he woke.

He's not worried, really. An apology, a promise to be less reckless next time, and Sam'll come to him like a lamb. Forgiveness for the little things is cheap from Sam these days, and sometimes Dean even finds it irritating. Wants to say stick to your guns, Sam. Don't let me wear you down. What the hell happened to you? But he gets it, he does. Sam's a Big Picture sort of person and all that matters is faith and penance and perseverence and if Dean let him he'd probably sleep on a bed of thorns just to bleed in the way of the saints. Good thing he has someone looking out for him.

It's half-past ten when Dean scrubs at his face over the sink- he sleeps in after hunts, always has- and wanders into the kitchen, yawning. It's empty- Sam'll be in the War Room because he doesn't do lie-ins- and coffee hasn't been brewed yet, which is weird. He makes it dark and bitter (the way Sam likes it, because he's nice) and kicks open the War Room door.

'Mornin',' he says, just before he sees that Sam's not there. Which means he's either in his room- unlikely- or he's out jogging. Or walking. Doing one of those Sam things that always have to take place at unholy hours of the morning. Dean pours him coffee anyway. If he's running, he should be back soon.

Except that twenty minutes later, Dean's got bacon on plates and pancakes frying and Sam still hasn't shown.

He leaves the food and goes to knock on Sam's door. No reply. He opens it, light folding into the room, his shadow long and alien.

Sam's not on his bed. Or in his bed. Unecessarily, Dean checks under it.

He almost misses it, but there's a small pile of something on Sam's pillow. He scoops it up. Lets it fall through his fingers.

Little brown petals.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

Dean leaves a plate of food in the oven for when Sam gets back and goes to eat at the table. It's kind of weird eating alone. The Bunker can feel strange, sometimes, when he's the only person in it- strange as if the cracked mirrors watch you when you move, strange as if the walls groan under all the myths trapped inside. Strange like the light is the same whether it's day or night, strange like Dean doesn't like having his earphones in when he's alone in a room because anything could come in and he wouldn't know, wouldn't hear it- but that's okay, because Sam'll be back soon.

He eats. It's kind of hard to know what to do with himself without Sam around. Watching T.V isn't really the same without Sam there; it's not like Dean can do a commentary for himself. And there's no-one else who'll smile in the exact way that Sam smiles when Dean makes a really dumb joke. He tries to look for a case, but all he turns up is a lot of missing people without leads (which has to be bull, because what case doesn't have leads, but if they don't have the info they can't exactly take the case). He tells himself that when- well, _if -_ it gets to twelve and Sam's not back yet, then he's allowed to worry.

At eleven-fifteen, Dean eats Sam's breakfast (and tries not to feel guilty about it, because there's only so long bacon and pancakes taste good for). He spends next half-hour checking his watch and willing Sam to walk through the door. Preferably with some excuse. Best-case scenario: Sam got up early and walked twenty miles to a really awesome bakery and bought pie to apologise for not coming to bed last night and is even now journeying back and will walk through the door any second. Except there isn't a really awesome bakery twenty miles away, and even if there was Sam's got nothing to apologise for and knows it. And even if all of the above were true, it's Sam; he'd probably have run there and back in about half an hour. Well, maybe not half an hour. But still.

By twenty to twelve, he's starting to feel really guilty about eating all the bacon and pancakes (because what if Sam comes back and he's not eaten anything since the diner yesterday and Dean has to tell him he ate all the food, Christ. And somehow that turns into Sam won't come back unless I make more food and _that_ turns into when I make food Sam'll walk through the door). So he makes some more. And puts it in the oven when Sam still hasn't appeared. He forgets they have that oven, sometimes.

For the last two minutes before noon strikes, Dean sits at the table and watches the needle tick round the clock face. It's not the longest two minutes of his life. But of the past month, definitely. Maybe the past year.

At twelve on the dot- coat already on, bag packed, car keys in hand- he goes outside.

It's a beautiful morning, really, and he almost resents Sam because how is he supposed to enjoy anything with this awful creeping worry chewing at him. The road's drowning in dead leaves and the sky's deep and huge and eyelid-pale, trees burnished to the obscure gold of Russian icons. He shouts Sam's name- three times for luck- and checks above the embankment for Signs of Sammy before getting into the car.

Up and down the road, first- checking both sides for sprawled limbs, for blood. For breadcrumbs. For anything. He sees a flash of wet red and soft brown at one point and jerks the car to a stop, heart jackhammering, but it's just a dead bird; just roadkill.

Maybe Sam went out and got run over by a car. It'd be a very Sam thing to do. He thinks if I don't find him I'll call the morgue and then stops himself. You don't save the world a million and one times to get run over by a car. You just- you just don't. It'd be ridiculous. You don't meet Satan and God and God's goddamned sister to get run over by a car. And anyway, there are hardly any cars around Lebanon.

Next stop is the Gas-n-Sip, five minutes from the Bunker. It's empty when he goes in, except for the cashier- it's pretty much always empty- but he forces himself to walk slowly, stopping to look at baby wipes and those shoelace things that movie librarians hang their glasses on and a white wire rack of postcards. He spins it until he sees one he likes- a very zen-looking mountain with mist all round it- and saunters to the counter with it in his hand, trying for a grin. By the way the girl eyes him, it's not convincing.

'Nice day,' he says as he pays.

'Yeah,' she says. He's seen her in here before; cornrows, lip gloss, fingers thick and impatient on the cash register. He clears his throat too loud. 'Hey,' he says. 'Have you seen a guy in here this morning? Real tall, long hair?'

She frowns without looking round. 'He the guy who comes in with you?'

He hadn't realised she'd taken notice. Well, they're virile, attractive men, right? 'Yeah. That guy. You seen him around?'

A head-shake. Her cornrows bounce. 'Sorry. Not seen him today.'

'Ah,' he says. It's stupid for his stomach to drop like that. It was a long shot anyway. Sam's not keen on gas station food. 'Okay. Well. If you do. See him. Could you-'

'How about you write your number down,' she says, voice bored. 'I'll call you if he comes in. He ain't exactly easy to miss.'

He gives her his number. Postcard in hand, he's going for the door when her voice comes- 'What is he, your boyfriend or somethin'?'

'Or somethin',' Dean says. He smiles at her, because it's not her fault that Sam wasn't here, and he leaves.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

He drives through Lebanon, slowing down to look out the window. Every moment he expects to see Sam, and every moment he's beginning to suspect, somewhere in his bowels, that he won't. Thinks that he could almost die with the need to catch sight of Sam just round this corner. Keeps waiting for the lurching moment when he spots that mop of hair. Every time someone comes into view his gut wrenches, even if they look nothing like Sam. It's cruel, cruel in a familiar way, and there's a sickening feeling of being back a decade ago and looking for Sam for days before realising he was possessed by Meg. All that time there had been this idea, sitting at the back of his mind like some bloated pale monster, that he was never going to see Sam again. That all they'd been through had been wiped away, just like that. That Sam's whole existence had been reduced to an absence, that that absence would inevitably take the place _in memoriam_ of how Sam had been, how bold and sweet and kind and scary he'd been when he was here. Dean can't feel that way again. For years it's been something to keep him going, thinking at least he's here, at least when he goes missing I know where he is, at least I'm not dying that particular death- and a kind of prayer, too. Don't ever make me go through that again. A sobering knowledge that it could be worse, that their lives were fragile and Dean could well have to relive that at some point. A reminder that he had to take happiness where he could get it.

If what they've just been starting to build up was all the happiness they got- if that was the last he ever saw of Sam- if the day is come when he does have to relive that-

But this is getting out of hand. Sam's been missing for, what? Seven hours? Seven hours is nothing. Seven hours isn't long enough to start thinking the worst. Sam would be pissed. Sam would raise an eyebrow and say something that set Dean's mind to rest whilst simultaneously being sincere and intelligent and a Kafka reference. If Dean goes all maudlin and starts thinking he's never going to see Sam again after seven fucking hours then, heck, he might as well throw in the towel. Hand the case to the Feds or some shit. If he thinks it then it could make it real, make it a possibility, make it valid. And it's not valid.

Sam'll probably be waiting for him when he gets back to the bunker. Maybe he went deep into the archives and just spent all day researching. In fact that's by far the most plausible solution. He'll come out with dust in his eyebrows. With his hair pulled back into one of those cheap scrunchies and a box of the kneecaps of lesser Dominican monks or something under his arm. Dean'll hug him (if this happens, Dean, if, don't jinx yourself, something bad could well have happened to Sam, look at your lives) and ask him rougly where the hell have you been, I was so worried, I love you so much, why do you keep scaring me like this, where do you get off on making me worry about you, how dare you not eat anything all day, how dare you not tell me where you were, do you know how worried I was, do you know how scared I was, do you know how I asked at every door, I thought that this was it, I thought that our happiness was over before it had barely begun, I should have made you happier while I had the chance, let me feed you, let me bundle you into the shower, let me get the dust off you, Jesus Christ you're still filthy from the hunt, Jesus Christ you just don't get it, you don't know how scared I was getting.

He drives back at a lesiurely pace, taking his sweet time, because the longer he takes the more time he gives Sam to reemerge from wherever he's put himself, the more time he gives Sam to be waiting for him when he gets there, and when he's got a hand on the Bunker door he has to close his eyes for a second because what if he's not there. What if he's not there after all this. What then. What does he do then.

How is he supposed to open this door when he's half-expecting to see Sam bleary-eyed and sleep-creased and soft as all hell, and when he's half-expecting to see nothing and when he's already anticipating the way his gut'll lurch at the Lack of Sam- how is he supposed to open this door. His hand clenches uselessly on the wood. Dean has these moments, sometimes, where he looks at Sam and thinks That person is your soulmate. Look at him. Look how beautiful he is. Somehow these moments are stopping him from opening the door.

It's like ripping a band-aid off. He has to at some point. Sooner rather than later. He doesn't do it. He's too scared. He's blown this out of proportion but he needs Sam to be there.

He's being ridiculous. Worst-case scenario, Sam's not there. That means he's been missing for about eight hours. It's not the end of the world. Dean's dealt with worse. Nothing could be worse than knowing Sam was in Hell while Dean lived a cushy civilian life. But, God, this wasn't supposed to be the kind of day that he had to compare to Sam being in Hell just to make the current situation look good. This wasn't supposed to be that day. Dean had been going to get Sam to watch Resident Evil with him. Or some porn, at the very least. Screw Sam's selfish ass, what's he doing going missing for eight hours?- when he knows that that'd fuck up their plans. They won't get to watch anything if Sam doesn't show soon. Before he can think about it any farther Dean's shoving open the door, unable to stop himself from dashing to the balcony so he can see-

He casts his eyes around, searching frantically for a good ten seconds. Checking and re-checking; just to be sure.

No Sam. It doesn't provoke the violent physical reaction he'd expected in himself. Not even a swooping feeling in his gut. At least he knows now. And if Sam's not in Lebanon or in the War Room then, very probably, he's elsewhere in the Bunker. Maybe he locked himself in somewhere by accident. Or got sucked through to Oz or something. Or something. Knowing Sam.

Knowing Sam.

There's got to be at least a couple hundred rooms in the Bunker. He doesn't think he's even been in all of them. Huge rooms that stretch darkly back for hundreds of feet, filled to bursting point with old books and shelves and shelves of junk, one-eyed teddies with weird hinged limbs and intricately painted clay beads clustered and pooling everywhere, ancient mugs with coffee hardened to silt at the bottom. Tiny rooms the size of cupboards, crammed with dusty books and cat skeletons and boxes of tiny, glittering, disgustingly dead beetles. He doesn't explore properly, doesn't look through any of the old stuff the way Sam loves doing (Sam could spend goddamned months down here, it almost makes him jealous sometimes, the fact that apparently a bunch of mouldy books were more fascinating than the great Dean Winchester.)

He yells Sam's name more times than he can count. Until his voice is scratchy. In some rooms, it echoes (Hell echoed sometimes, which you wouldn't really expect, and sometimes it groaned and churned and whistled like an old broke machine. He wonders, briefly, how far the Bunker extends into the earth. If they can expect the ground to just collapse on them sometime; perhaps in the middle of the night, when they're asleep; when they won't know what's happening.)

He doesn't waste time on details; not yet.

Every half-hour or so he stops searching and goes back to the War Room, just in case Sam's come back. Every time he opens a door to see No Sam he becomes a little more frantic. Every time he shines a torch on a dark corner to see No Sam he tells himself next room, next corner, he'll be there. Beginning, slowly, to know that he won't. Beginning to let himself know that (on the off-chance that his pessimism will increase the likelihood that Sam is, in fact, within reach).

The Bunker's corridors are labyrinthine. After the third time he gets lost (resulting in time wasted as he tries to get back to the center, in thinking Sam could be here he could have gotten back and I would have missed it), he finds a piece of chalk in one of the rooms. From then on he makes a red X on every door he goes past.

Once he's gone through every room, he doubles back and checks again, just in case he and Sam have passed each other or something. Time passes in jolts and crawls. He looks his watch to see that it's only half past three; next time he checks it's a quarter to nine and every door has three crosses on it. He's starving. Beyond exhausted, and strangely close to tears. It's becoming apparent that Sam isn't anywhere within the Bunker. That's another easy fix ruled out and he should have known, really, because when is it ever the simple option with them. But now he's wasted hours during which Sam could be somewhere, hurt, terrified, dying. He's got to waste more time just doing shit like eating and walking around. He's got no leads. Something could have taken Sam, but who the fuck knows what. Sam could be possessed again, but that could leave them anywhere and he hasn't smelled sulphur at all, though that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

At nine, Dean gets together a quick-and-dirty ritual and does what he should have done right at the start. He summons Crowley.

As he holds the match to the powder, he hesitates a second. If Crowley doesn't come- now of all times- fuck. 'You better show,' he tells the flame. 'You fucking better.' He's never wanted to see that smarmy face so bad before. 'If you don't, I'm going to come down there, and I'm going to rip your bowels out. I mean that.'

He touches the flame to the power. Expecting the sound of feet, for measured tones saying something like 'Why, Dean, what a pleasant surprise.' Closes his eyes. He'll take any amount of shit from Crowley if he'll just appear.

When it's been a minute and Crowley hasn't appeared, he feels like sinking to the floor. He doesn't. He clenches his jaw so hard he can feel a muscle ticking and starts brainstorming, staying beside the summoning equipment- he hadn't used a devil's trap, just to provide incentive- on the off-chance that Crowley shows up late.

As he writes he presses against the notepaper so hard the pen shows through on the other side.

SAMMY

1\. Something took him

2\. Somehow compelled (threatened, blackmailed, mind control) to leave by himself

3.

He hesitates. But, fuck, it's a possibility. Technically.

3\. Left by himself without compulsion.

After a moment he crosses that one out. Scribbles over it until he can't make out the words. He'd be wronging Sam just by suspecting that. Sam wouldn't leave. He's been happy lately; Dean can tell. Anyway, even if he did leave he'd talk to Dean about it first. Let him know, at least.

(It's still not enough. He tears that bit of the paper off and burns it in his coffee cup.)

So that just leaves 1) and 2).

There are plenty of people with grudges against them. Maybe a hunter who hasn't got the memo that Armageddon's over. Maybe the family of a monster they killed. The question is, when could something have taken Sam? After the hunt, they hadn't got back to the bunker til about two in the morning. He tries to think whether Sam had gotten out to get gas or anything during the drive, whether there was any point where a shifter or something could have jumped him and taken his place, but he's sure it was a straight drive. Not even a pee stop. And Dean watched him walk into the Bunker, he distinctly remembers because when Sam had gotten to the door he'd turned around and frowned at Dean and yawned and said 'Dude, stop ogling my ass.' And then they'd gone in. And into their seperate rooms. And he hasn't seen Sam since. So either something must have gotten into the Bunker itself and taken Sam, or Sam went on a run or something and was taken then. And highly unlikely as it is that something did get into the Bunker, at least this is something he can check.

It takes him a ridiculously long time to remember about the petals he'd found on Sam's pillow. But even once he does, it doesn't do much good. He can't think of any monsters- at least ones that could make it past the wardings- that leave rotting petals behind when they take their victims. Tries googling it, but all that comes up is something about increased flower death over America.

Crowley still hasn't shown. Sam's been missing for about fifteen hours. Fuck. Time to call Cas.

He goes into Sam's room. Starts thinking out what he's going to say, weirdly nervous. He should have done this sooner, but that would have meant admitting that something was wrong in a way that he couldn't fix. In a way that couldn't end with he and Sam on his bed watching Resident Evil. And it sucks that he's thinking this but honestly, Cas has this way of making things even more complicated than they already are. But he cares about Sam. Even if he can't help he deserves to know that something's up. And something is definitely up.

Dean starts turning out Sam's drawers- 'Sorry, kiddo,' he says, because Sam likes his privacy and God knows he's entitled to it, but this really can't be helped. Sam's got these two fancy tops specially for running, ones Dean bought for him ( _completely_ unprompted, because he's a nice guy). If Dean can find them both, that means he didn't go running. Which makes it a hell of a lot more likely that something took him from the bunker. Or that he was coerced into leaving.

'Cas,' he says as he chucks endless piles of plaid and denim onto Sam's bed. Jeez, Sam needs new shirts. As soon as he gets him back they'll sort that. He'll take Sam to a fancy department store in a city or something and let him pick whatever he wants, no budget. 'Hey, man. Look, I know you're probably not having an easy time of it right now, wherever you are-' because when _are_ you having an easy time of it- 'and I hate to put pressure on you, buddy, but I need your help. Like, right now.' He pauses. Just to convey the gravity of the situation. Even if Cas doesn't always get stuff like that. 'It's Sam,' he says darkly.

He counts to five. Looks around the room. No signs of Mr Angel. It just figures that this would happen today. Dean throws more shirts onto the bed. All Sam's other clothes seem to be here- which just serves to show that, yes, option three was delusional. As he already knew. And it deserved to be torched in a coffee cup.

(He can't help being glad about that, just a little bit. It feels horrible to be glad that Sam's been taken somewhere by force, but rescues are something he can do; he doesn't think he could go and pull Sam away from a happy domestic life again.)

In drawer three he hits jackpot: both Sam's running shirts are here. So in all likelihood, Sam was in the bunker when something whisked him away. Or compelled him to whisk himself away. Which should narrow it down quite a bit, except it doesn't, not really. It's not true that the Bunker's impenetratable; shit gets in here all the time. It's just that that shit is usually human. Like the Stynes. And Dean has a hard time believing that a human could yank Sam away without some sort of noise or struggle. Amara and Chuck could get in, of course, but as far as he knows they're still off on their God Sibling Honeymoon (TM) and anyway why the fuck would they want to take Sam?

The problem is that _everything_ is unlikely, so Dean's left with an entire world full of suspects. Judging from the lack of signs of a struggle, and the fact that Dean didn't wake, he'd say maybe they threatened him, made Sam keep quiet on pain of Dean's life. His chest constricts.

It's then that he comes back to himself; he's sitting on the bed with one of Sam's shirts pressed to his nose. He's not sure when that happened. Christ. It hasn't even been a day.

If the sole aim had been to kill Sam, whoever got in could have murdered him in his sleep. The assumption, then; somebody wants to see him suffer. See them both suffer, maybe. He's beginning to realise how vulnerable they are when they stay put, wardings or not. Motels were anonymous. Hard to trace. This place is a beacon. Sam was taken from their _home_.

Whatever took Sam could still be here.

He pushes the thought back. One thing at a time. Anyway, fuck it, he doesn't care. At least if it took him he might get to see Sam again. (Shut the fuck up, Dean, you'll see him again.)

The shirt smells like libraries. And the booming weighted silence of a church. And fancy conditioner. And melted snow. And rain. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Samuel Winchester.

He needs a drink. It's the first time in weeks that the feeling's come to him so clearly. His mouth's dry. Lips starting to crack. Maybe it'd help.

But. Sam. Sam would be so disappointed. Sam would be so sad. (Sam would give him those eyes.)

He doesn't need a drink. (He needs a drink.)

 **SPN SPN SPN**

No sleep for Dean that night. It seems awful to rest even for a second. Awful and callous and cruel when time could be the difference between Sam living or dying. When even as he's snoozing on memory foam Sam could be being tortured in a dingy cellar somewhere. (He used to have nightmares when Sam was in Hell. It got so bad after a while that when Lisa asked him to see a therapist he caved without any fuss. Hated himself for it, as if he was somehow failing to acknowledge Sam's suffering. The nightmares stopped. The only way to carry the weight of what was happening to Sam was by forgetting about it whenever he possibly could. It felt like a betrayal not to think of that every moment; not to pay homage to that, even though he knew, he knew that Sam would want him to enjoy his life. It felt blasphemous.) He uses his shoulder to press his phone to his ear, making call after call as he turns Sam's room inside out.

Not everyone picks up, probably because it's three in the fucking morning, but Dean still wants to yell down the line at them to pick the fuck up, don't you feel it, don't you get that this is the most urgent thing you'll deal with in your life? My kid brother saved the world and you can't pick up the fucking phone for him? Everyone who does- Garth, Tracey and Krissy among them, though Jody and Alex and Claire don't answer- he tells that Sam is missing. There's a tiny bit of him that's brightly painfully waiting for someone to say I was just about to call you, I rescued the kid half an hour ago, he's here in my backseat, his nose is bust but he's okay and when one guy, a hunter called Wade, actually says _hey, I was gonna call you_ Dean's heart races. Turns out ol' Wade has his eye on a wendigo case he thought they might take.

'Sorry, man,' says Dean, when he can speak again. 'We don't do wendigos anymore. Too messy, y'know?'

By this time he's turned out all the contents of Sam's dresser. Everything's folded into these long beautiful heron lines- not unlike Sam himself- and, also not unlike with Sam, he shakes them out without remorse. Dean knows where to stop these days, no more stuffing rogue angels in where they don't belong, but if it's a choice between Sam and Sam's intact bedroom- well, it's not as if Sam'll get to see his room ever again if Dean doesn't get him back, so he might as well have his wicked way.

There's nothing too revealing. He's glad. There's so little left of Sam that hasn't been peeled open; Dean isn't ruthless enough to want to see more. He finds a slim black book wedged right at the back of a drawer, but it's crammed with unintelligable strings of letters and numbers and symbols. It looks like code, which means that Dean can't crack it, because it's Sam and Sam won't have used the A = 1 system. There's also absolutely zero sign of anything porn-related, which, come on. Imagination rules the world, yes, Dean's aware, but not even Sam's imagination is that efficient. And there is zero fap material in this room. None. Nada. It's ridiculous. Thank God for incest, or Sam probably wouldn't be getting any at all.

(Actually, if he doesn't get Sam back, Dean probably won't be getting any either. Alright, it pales in comparison to everything else, but still; a shock to the system. He's not sure he can live without sex. To be fair, he definitely can't live without Sam. So if he doesn't get Sam back he's likely to die long before he starts feeling the effects of sex deprivation. But it's okay, because he's going to get Sam back. He is.

(He needs a fucking drink.)

(He needs a fucking drink.)

Instead, he makes herbal tea.

He hates herbal tea.

Maybe if he drinks Sam's herbal tea Sam'll storm through the door and demand the single herbal teabag back.


	3. Chapter 3

For someone who tried so hard not to mark what he touched, to move through the world without sullying it, Sam's fingerprints are everywhere. Now that he's missing he takes up so much space. His purple toothbrush next to Dean's. A post-it note covered in his scrawl stuck to the fridge.

He's going crazy from how much of Sam is here with him. There's something in every room, no matter how small- even if it's just his smell clinging to a towel, a long brown hair in the sink. All manner of tiny details, and some of them are even kind of gross. Sammy used to live like a ghost, not letting himself spill out to occupy a space. Lately it seems that he's been slipping.

Dean can't help thinking, at one point, Why now. Why is it that as soon as Sam's presence becomes tangible, as soon as he begins to accept to fact that this is their space, he has to go missing. (He is missing. It's been a day. He can't not be missing.) Why is it that as soon as Sam starts to let himself have something it gets pulled away. Why is it that the world just can't give the kid a break. Why is it that the world just can't give Dean a break, and just for a second he lets himself be selfish because he deserves it. Why can't Dean just- not have to worry about Sam for a while. Who said that this would be his life, this constant terror that the person who is everything to him is suffering for being just that. Why can't he- just forget that Sam exists, just for one goddamned moment. He needs this weight off him. He thought they were in the clear. There was nothing wrong with them or the universe for the first time in ages. They were starting to find out who they are when they weren't scared all the time. Dean was starting to find out that when Sam isn't scared he loves to sleep, maybe just for the feeling. That Sam takes ridiculously long showers when he isn't scared, steams up the shower room like nothing he's ever seen. That sometimes, when he thinks no-one's listening, he sings to himself- only quietly, barely above a murmur. Judy Collins, the Beatles, the Killers. That when Sam prays, he's thankful. He's always been thankful when he prays, but these days he means it.

And when Dean's not scared all the time, he loves life. He cooks. He's started keeping this little blue box in the kitchen with bits of paper that he's put tried and tested recipes on. Fuck it, there's still banoffee pie in the fridge, left over from the other night. 'This is a compomise,' he'd informed Sam, bringing it to the table. 'See, on the one hand, it's pie. But on the other hand, bananas. They're fruit, right?'

Sam, thank God, had seen the gesture for what it was, laughed, and eaten three slices. There's only one left. He's never felt less like eating. He may never be able to look at pie, or bananas, again after this.

Still, though. That sucks. To never have quite enough food as kids- even into adulthood- to be throwing luxuries away now that they've settled down. He doesn't know why this matters so much to him in the face of what's happening, but it does. He eats it as he's making one last comb through the Bunker. The worst part it, he actually enjoys it. It tastes good. He hadn't realised that he was hungry, had put down the ragged ache in his stomach to Sam. But he feels better now. And worse. Because wherever Sam is, three square meals is probably not on the agenda and fuck it all, he'd barely got him eating properly.

This day is slowly becoming an exercise in not-drinking.

He keeps meaning to leave the Bunker, to scout through the streets, but instead he finds himself staring at his watch and thinking if Sam doesn't come in by eleven, I'll leave. Eleven strikes; it turns into if Sam doesn't come in by twelve, I'll leave. Maybe it's self-torture but he feels like the exercise gives him back a modicum of power, tells himself that if he waits long enough before going out Sam will stumble in while he's gone (because that's always how these things work). And Dean doesn't even care that if that happens he won't know until he arrives back that Sam is safe. At least it would mean that this situation is salvageable.

Eventually this turns into not wanting to leave, because if he arrives back and Sam isn't here a bit of him might break off.

Instead, he takes Sam's laptop. First he looks through his files, but the pictures are mostly close-ups of crime scenes emailed to him by other hunters and the documents section is basically all research. A couple files are encrypted, but Dean has no clue how to hack into them. Maybe he could find somebody to do that. Anything that might help. The music is mostly nine-hour recordings of rain sounds. Maybe it's a stress relief thing. He wonders if Sam ever heard the sound of rain while he was in Hell. Wonders if that's why Sam loves the shower room so much.

(There are so many, many things that he never dared to ask. He hopes that when he gets him back he'll be brave enough to, but he kinda knows he won't. It's okay; some stuff he doesn't really want to know anyway.)

He goes through the news, and there he does hit something. Over the world people have been disappearing without trace, and the worldwide disappearence stats have quintupled over the past three months. In some of these disappearences, the presence of flowers left behind has been noted. There's talk of copycat kidnappers, worldwide phenomena.

Dean wonders what monster fits this profile. No signs of violence. Signs its work, but only sometimes.

The most alarming thing, he decides, was that it didn't look as if Sam had struggled. Fuck the fact that he was asleep. Fuck the fact that they could have drugged him. Sam always struggles. This cannot be humans.

Whatever monster did this, perhaps they came to Sam in the form of a loved one.

He thinks, matter cannot be created or destroyed. Sam still exists, somewhere, on some plane. He is out there. There are however many square feet of America that he could be in. If he has to, Dean will comb through every single one.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

The only reason Dean leaves the Bunker, in the end, is that he knows he'll start in on the whiskey if he stays any longer. Maybe even the vodka. It's been that kind of day. Of course, being piss-drunk wouldn't necessarily impede his ability to search for Sam, but he's beginning to connect it with the idea of Sam's return. If I don't drink, they'll give him back to me. If I don't walk on the cracks, they'll give him back to me. If I put all his things exactly where I found them, they'll give him back to me. He's fully aware that these are coping strategies. Things humans do to help themselves function in times of great emotional stress, to help them feel like they have power over a situation's outcome. But fuck it, he's a human, and he's under great emotional stress. He's entitled.

Anyway, avoiding bad luck can't hurt.

Maybe even more than that, he can't stop seeing- whenever he nearly goes for the bottle (theoretically they don't keep anything stronger than beer in the Bunker anymore, but Dean's got some potent stuff at the back of his closet)- how disappointed Sam would be. How he'd inevitably blame himself for being taken, for driving Dean back to alcoholism. How he wouldn't be angry in the slightest.

He thinks that when Sam gets back he wouldn't mind making him angry. Really, really, furiously, poke-a-bear-with-a-stick, red-rag-to-bull angry. In fact, he'd love to see that. It can't be healthy to be as well-adjusted as Sam. Nothing ever seems to rile him anymore, that's the problem; at least, nothing Dean's willing to resort to.

It's three days before his conviction that Sam could walk back in slips away. It had vanished after the first day, really; it's just that there was still some thread of feeling that it could happen, that Sam could Be Okay, that he'd bring himself back and that Dean needed to be around to see it. That if he set out to look for Sam too soon, he could miss Sam coming back. He feels like that'll only happen if he's there to see it. What's that thing with the tree that falls in the forest and nobody can hear it?

What eventually pushes Dean into leaving is the thought that comes to him, unbidden, the morning of the third day. It's six-thirty. He's slept for maybe two hours since Sam vanished, and he hasn't seen a mirror lately but he's got a thick layer of gingery stubble. His eyes are so raw-tired that he can barely read, has to strain to focus. He's nearly out of coffee, and given that they buy that shit in bulk, that's saying a lot.

He's opening up Sam's mattress with a penknife when he thinks, very clearly, _Sam is dead._ It's not like the idea hadn't been at the back of his mind, but he hadn't let himself think it before. But something's breaking in him- he can feel it, sure as he can feel his tendons push out like birds' feet when he makes a fist, sure as he can feel the danger danger danger call deep in his gut. He lets it break for a second. He lets it. Thinks, Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Lets himself experience, in miniature, the stark horror of having no options, no recourse, no try again laters, no second chances, no time to fix anything. This is the part of grief that never gets monotonous. With Bobby, it was crinkle eyes and ol' rotgut and dirty hats and that one time he shouted at Dean and called him a princess and everything, every fond and good and grumpy thing about that stubborn old man spilling over him at once. With Sam, as many times as he loses him, it's never the same. The first time- Sam dying in his arms in the mud- it had been the panic of it, the No not here not now not him we were so close, the Baby brother and Should have protected you it should have been me and how dare they leave you to die on your knees in the mud how dare they and it had all happened so fast, the No please let me at least talk to him first, let us at least say our goodbyes, give us something, give us anything, give us time. Now it's How could I let you spend your whole life scared, how could they let us suffer more when we've suffered so much, all those things I said we could do tomorrow and now there's no tomorrows left to do them in, look at how good you were, look at how kind and smart and good you were, look at how much you loved me, look at how much you loved me, look at how much you loved me with all your kindness and goodness and sweetness and darkness and your soft hair and your stupid eyes and the way you touched books like you were running your finger over glass to collect the dust from it and _Sam_.

Well, they got time.

They did at least get that.

Something like this, letting something that huge into you, it fucks with you for days. Dean can't just tell himself Shut the hell up, he's not dead and go about the business of a search-and-rescue. But that's what has to be done; he does it. He does it. He pushes it down. He pushes it all down. Sammy always hated that, of course; thought he was emotionally repressed, thought it wasn't healthy, blah blah blah. Fuck that, though. Of course it's not healthy. Of course he's fucking repressed. But it beats being a crying mess with a sofa cushion over his head. It beats being useless.

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. He's not dead. (If he's dead, I'll march into Heaven and rip the throats out of every angel in the place if I have to. I'll march into the Empty and drag him out and then I'll stab Billie in the neck. I'll march into Hell. I'll march into Purgatory. I'll march into goddamn TV-land.) He's not dead.

Packing takes twelve minutes. He's on the road within fifteen.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

Dying October sunlight's made the car seats warm. It reflects off the wing mirrors, gives a Hell-glare to the whites of Dean's eyes when he catches his reflection.

He's got no direction, not really, no leads except five decaying petals. Sam once told him that Lebanon is the historical center of America; it makes sense to drive out from there. He takes back roads; it's a whole lot of fields round here, and all these dusty roads and the sun glancing off the car remind him jarringly of his years alone, after Sam went off to Stanford and Dad handed over the keys to the kingdom. His hands tighten around the wheel. He's almost tempted to say something; to beg the Impala to lead him to Sam.

He pulls off at a motel when it starts getting dark, because he's beginning to feel floaty and detached and weirdly light on his feet, and when he tries to leave the car he's grabbing hold of the door to steady himself before he faceplants. It's then that he realises he can't remember the last time he ate.

The motel is the kind of shitty that even they rarely check into; one of the windows is taped up, it appears to be constructed from clapboard, and there's a greenish stain on the ceiling that bulges out behind the head of the desk clerk.

He's not sure whether he wants a single or a double. Turns out they only have doubles anyway.

He pays in cash (it's by the hour, for fuck's sake) and finds the room. The walls in this place are so thin that he can hear a couple mid-gasp in the next room. He dumps the bag on the other bed (Sammy's bed) and begins spray-painting a devil's trap on the ceiling, just to give his hands something to do.

He summons Crowley again- whilst praying to Cas, who cares if he sounds desperate, it's Sam- and neither of them show. What the fuck is up with Heaven and Hell anyway? Historically Cas can be sketchy about coming when they pray, fair enough, but Crowley tends to be pretty quick about it.

His challenge for this night is Not Thinking. He gets out Sam's laptop and searches a bunch of news pages. There's more stuff about disappearences and people being found asleep and he finds a couple articles about the 'miracle trees' that are supposedly sprouting everywhere. It seems unrelated, but there's never two crazy things going on at once. 'Hey, Sam-'

He stops. Looks around. Takes a deep, long, inhale-exhale.

The question is, what the hell does it all mean? What is there to tell him where to go now? What to do now? It's only a matter of time before he gets piss-drunk. So far he's held out, all It'll slow you down with finding him, all He'd be so sad, but, God, Dean needs to be able to not feel for a while. He's spending every second of every minute of every day pushing things back and it's exhausting.

Drinking won't help you find Sam. Everything you do must help you find Sam now.

It feels different this time; different from every other time Sam's been taken. Different from the Benders, different from Abaddon, different from Cold Oak, different from Gadreel, different from Meg, different from the vetala that one time. Different from the Cage. He's not sure why that is. He's just so done with it, so tired of it, and right now if he knew for sure Sam were waiting for him in Heaven he'd blow his brains out with pleasure. Maybe it's just the sheer amount of times this has happened before, the ugly familiarity of that growing sense that something hideous has happened. Maybe it's that he promised Sam never again.

On their last hunt (not their last hunt, their most recent hunt- or, yes, maybe their last hunt, maybe when he gets Sam back they'll retire fully) they'd gone to a motel. It was classier than this one, but it smelt the same. Motels tend to. It's kind of a mixture of nicotine, stale booze, stale sweat, and sex, with overtones of Pine Forest air conditioner.

They've a different set of unspoken politics when they're away from the Bunker. Sam keeps to his own bed, for one thing, though sometimes their hands tangle together in the night. But every so often- not always, but every so often- the darkness opens things up like flowers.

That night on the Most Recent Hunt (only four nights ago, Jesus Christ, only four nights ago Sam was here and solid and I could touch him whenever I wanted and speak to him and why didn't I) they'd been lying in their beds. It was maybe two in the morning. They were both sober.

Dean was beginning to tease himself into sleep when Sam said quietly, 'I used to be so afraid.'

'Hmmmm?'

'About Hell. I used to be so scared. Of going back.'

Dean's eyes had opened. He looked over to the bed where Sam lay.

'Some nights it was like I could feel it,' said Sam. 'Like there was a- a great hand, y'know- pulling me down into the earth.' He paused. 'It was like. I was out. And, mostly, I knew I was out. But the Cage- that place still existed. Somewhere on some dimension it was still reachable, and as long as it was still reachable, I could go back there. Like, it was possible.'

Dean didn't say anything.

'Sometimes all I could think about was the fact that potentially, one day, I could go back.' His voice was soft in the dark. 'That I could be returned to- to that same state again. And then I went back.'

'Sam,' Dean said.

'Here's the funny thing,' Sam continued. 'I think in a way I kind of wanted to. Just to get the worst over with. Just to- confirm my worst fear. And I went back. And it was- well.'

It had started to rain.

'I'm not scared anymore,' Sam said. 'I'm not sure why. But I'm not.'

After a minute, Dean heard him turning over in bed. He closed his eyes. Sleep came with surprising ease.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

Dean wakes face-down in the motel pillow, fully clothed over the covers. Even his boots are still on. He wonders if his recollection had been a dream or a simple memory. That motel had been marginally classier than this one. He's glad about that.

There's still no sign of Crowley or Cas.

It's two in the morning. He's hungry, he's got no actionable leads, and the couple next door have progressed to screaming at each other. Dean snatches up his car keys and makes for the door.

The sun's coming paper-pink over the horizon when he pulls the Impala into the gas station of the small town where the Most Recent Hunt was, and he's already starting to feel that this is a bad idea, that this is reckless, that this could do something to him in a way that he might not be able to detect. But what the hell- he should check for leads.

He starts with the gas station, asks for guys fitting Sam's description. Nothing. Next, the graveyard where they laid the spirit to rest. It's strange coming back to a town where they just left a mess; he has to glance furtively before going anywhere.

He checks through the graveyard, even digs up the grave they dug to confirm that Sam is not at the bottom of it (growing increasingly convinced, as he digs, that Sam _is_ , and almost collapsing in relief when he cracks open the coffin). When he goes to the motel he asks for the same room as last time, flashes the Fed badge when the kid working the desk proves reluctant.

Luckily they didn't vandalise this room; they don't generally count on being able to come back to a place. Dean can't get over the fact that a few days ago Sam was walking and breathing and taking up space in this room.

He touches the light switches where Sam's fingers have been. It shouldn't feel like such a privilege, this feeling of being close to Sam. It shouldn't feel like a holy grail. That's another familiar hated feeling, and it's beginning to creep up on him.

(Along with the very faintest poisonous sense that he's never going to see Sam again; that he's making the most of what's left of him in this room because this is his last chance to memorise Sam. To be near him.)

It's this point where he decides he can't do this anymore. He just can't. He drives down to the gas station, buys three bottles of whiskey, and starts drinking before he's even back behind the wheel. Fuck Sam. Fuck Sam. Sam's not here. Sam doesn't get a say in how he copes.

Back in the motel he sits on the bed in which Sam told him about his Cage-fears and he drinks. It hits him harder than he expected; it's been a while, maybe even longer than he thought. He's just broken what's probably the biggest streak of no-serious-drinking he's had since being fifteen years old. But, hell, there's no-one else around to care about that. No-one to stay sober for.

So he gets drunk. And he waits for the numbness, for the not-giving-a-shit, for the lovely lunatic high. Fuck you, Sam, for looking at him like that. He realises he said that aloud and, well, there's somehing so liberating about it- 'Fuck you, Sam,' he says again. 'Fuck you fuck you fuck you.' Fuck you for caring. Fuck you for leaving. Fuck you for having faith. Fuck you for being so stupid and so trusting that something would obviously come and screw that up because just because, because that's just tempting fate, because faith just _has_ to be tested, because they live in a mad blind howling universe that gets its kicks by hurting people who try to care for it. Fuck you for making me care.

He wakes at dawn to find the room trashed. The lamp's broken. Lampshade crooked. Mattress shredded. His lighters in a scattered heap on the floor. The chair's matchwood. The walls, the bed, some of the ceiling, the bathroom- all splashed with something that looks like water. He sniffs it.

Gasoline, he realises.

His head's pounding like a bitch.

Fuck. What the fuck has he- there's no Sam left here anymore. He's wiped it away. Only Dean, Dean's fury, Dean's ugly raging violent brokenness painted on the walls. He's lost a bit of his brother. These little traces are precious. These little traces could be all he has. He couldn't hold it together for longer than four days without drinking. If Sam were here. If Sam were here. His eyes would bug out and he'd spread his hands in that pissy what-the-hell-did-you-do-that-for way and say _Seriously, Dean? You do get that we paid a deposit, right?_

He'd give a lot to see the bitchface again now. When things like this happen it's the flaws that he misses the most; the things that he knows could slip from his memory so easily, given time. He's terrified of forgetting the little mole to the side of Sam's nose. The way he screwed his face up when he saw something gross. His rare grins. The sasquatch-sized footprints that inevitably track down the corridor after he showers. Dean's aching like something's been torn out of him. (Something has.)


	4. Chapter 4

i.

October 10, 00:37

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Five days, Sam. Five fuckin'- d'you know how worried I'm gettin' here? Where the fuck are you? You were the fuckin' psychic, can't you send me a fuckin'- phrophecy dream or somethin'? I just- how'm I even s'posed to know where to look?' (Pause.) 'I, uh- I keep tryin' to summon Cas or Crowley. Someone. I just don't wanna be alone in this thing, Sammy, but no-one's showin'. Fuck. Gonna regret this tomorrow. Shouldn't be drinkin'. Or calling, I know, I know, but fuck if it isn't good to talk t' you. Even if you're not gonna hear it. I got sad in my old age, huh?' (Pause.) 'Yeah, yeah, save it. I know what you're gonna say. You always were a little shit.' (Pause.) 'Just wish you'd give me somethin' to go on. I'm drivin' down to Jericho tomorrow- y'know where the woman in white case was. I mean. S'stupid, I know, an' sentimental and all, but I gotta start somewhere. I gotta go somewhere.' (Pause. Five seconds.) 'S'gonna hurt, though. Bein' somewhere where we were. Y'know? Back in the bad ol' days. Or the good ol' days. Before all this angel crap. When the fuck'd it all get so _big_ , huh? S'fuckin' lonely's what it is.' (Pause. Nearly a minute, this time.) 'Hey. Sammy- there was always somethin' I wanted to ask you, y'know? Never really dared. Didn't wanna upset you or nothin'.' (Pause.) 'I always wondered. When you got outta Hell. Did everythin' before it seem all- weird? Like it happened to someone else? I forgot some stuff. Mostly from when we were kids. It came back after a while, but everythin' before it felt all- distant, y'know? Guess forty years downstairs does that to you. An' I always wondered if it felt like that for you. A million years away. I guess it prob'ly would, right?' (Pause.) 'We coulda talked about that, Sammy. We coulda. If you'd wanted to. Maybe it'd've made us- feel better. Y'know.'

ii.

October 11, 23:14

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Sammy.' (A retch; a groan.) 'I'm so fucking-' (Unidentifiable sound; possibly animal.) 'Puking behind a dumpster.' (Laughter.) 'Puking behind a dumpster. At least it's familiar territory, huh? You wanna come and hold my hair back, sweetheart? Would have thought this'd be just your thing.' (More retching.) 'Fucking tequila. Kiddo, when I get you back, your cell's getting incinerated.' (Retching.) 'I'll buy you a new one. Promise.'

iii.

October 12, 03:02

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Jericho. Fuck, Sammy, I even went on the same fuckin' bridge. How 'bout that for memory lane, huh. Feel kinda like I've messed with the order of the universe or somethin', comin' back here. Guess I just couldn' leave well enough alone.' (Pause.) 'We were so fuckin' young. Y'know? I mean, shit, you were barely old 'nough to drink. I just. I found the same bridge. Where we pretended we were U.S Marshalls that one time. An' it jus' looked the same, all the sunrise light an' everything, an' I just remembered how your fuckin' hair kept flopping into your face that day and how- how _surprising_ it all was, y'know, how I dropped this little scrawny kid off at the bus stop and now, Jesus fuck, you were taller than me. That was what really got me, I think. An' you won't believe this but my first thought after I saw that you had height on me was _how the fuck am I s'posed to keep him safe now?_ I mean, you weren't little enough to jus' shove behind me anymore, right?' (Pause. The sound of someone drinking; a throat moving.) 'An' then we got on the road. An' I got that way down, y'know, where it counted, nothin' was different. An' that's what had to give in the end, I reckon- with, y'know, Gadreel an' all that. We had to change.' (More drinking.) 'We had to change.' (Pause.) 'Sorry, Sammy. Too drunk.' (Pause.) 'Way too goddamn drunk.'

(There is silence, and the faint hitch of someone breathing. After a few minutes the breathing deepens. A _thunk_ is heard. The last five minutes of the message are deep, congested snores.)

iv.

October 15, 00:39

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Y'know why I'm callin' on your spare spare cell, Sammy? I didn't wanna hear your voice. On the voicemail thingy on the main ones. Didn't think I could- y'know. Stand it. Or maybe I'm savin' it for when I miss you bad enough. Don't wanna listen to it too often, y'know? It's like old pictures. If you look at 'em too much you go numb. Or, hell, maybe I just don't wanna-' (Pause. Perhaps two minutes.) 'I went to a bar last night. Mostly just to get shitfaced. Keep driving around, picking up our old trails. Asking to see if you've been seen. I mean, you kinda stick out, kid. Keep trying to get a hold of Cas or Crowley or, heck, any garden-variety demon at the moment. No luck so far. S'weird. Heard that there's been no detectable demon activity for days, actually, and that sounds awesome on paper, but I don't like it, Sam. I don't like it.' (Pause.) 'Anyway. I was in this bar and I turned round and for this one moment I thought I saw you. This big lanky dude with hair just like yours, all leaning on the bar with his legs tangled up in the stool. Got this jolt. Went all- weird.' (A shaky laugh.) 'I'm tellin' you, man, it felt like when you touch an electric fence by accident. For this one second I thought- yeah.' (Pause.) 'But then he turned around. And, I mean, his nose wasn't right and his eyes weren't the same shape and he just- well, buddy, let's just say that you're inimitable, huh? But he was- not close. But he was _something_. And that- maybe it was the way he was sitting- I started missing the other stuff. The shit we never talked about. I even sorta miss never talking about it. All the crap we did in the dark. I miss your skin. Your stupid little moles.' (Seconds tick by; one, two, three...) 'I'd know your hands anywhere just by how the calluses feel, I reckon.' (Pause.) 'How's that for romance, kiddo?' (Pause.) 'I hit on him. The guy. If you were wondering. He was pretty nice about it, but he said he was straight. Ended up hustling him for a hundred cash. I'm pretty sure I coulda got four times that out of him, but I felt kinda guilty, y'know? Like it was you I was cheating.' (Pause.) 'You know, I hardly even thought about the whole- the sex part. About missing you like that. I'd barely even thought about it until then.' (Pause.) 'You can do whatever you like, kid. Just. Please. We can break the- y'know- the unbrotherly stuff off. I don't care. I mean, I care, but if you- if it's what you want. Just please come back. I don't care how. Shitting- I'm so fucking stupid. S'not your fault, Sam. I'm talking to a phone that I know is in your room. Maybe that's a good thing. S'not your fault.'

v.

October 17, 02:00

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Fuck you. Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you for this. I fucking- I fucking hate you. You fucking freak. You monster. There, are you happy? Is that what you want? For me to _just say it_? To _get it out there?_ I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I don't know why I wasted a goddamn minute of my life on you. This isn't fair. You can't do this to me. You just- you just can't. Get the-'

vi.

October 17, 09:33

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Sammy. Oh, God. Oh, God. I'm- I'm so sorry. Fuck.' (Pause.) 'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, kiddo. I didn't- I didn't mean a damn word. Shit. Fuck. You're not a freak and you're not a monster, okay, and I don't believe that you're gone because you wanted to go and even if you are I'm gonna try and respect that. And- shit. I'm so sorry, Sam. I don't hate you. I hate this. I hate this fucking life. I hate being scared all the time. I hate not knowing what's happening to you right now. I hate that you could be somewhere being hurt and I'm here leaving you fucking voicemail. I hate that we're not even safe in the safest place on Earth. You're my bright spot, Sam. I- I hope you get that.' (Pause.) I hope wherever you are you know that.' (Muffled.) 'Cas, where the fuck are you?'

vii.

October 20, 00:45

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Gonna get you out, Sam. Don't care where you are. You're comin' home. I'm bringin' you home.' (Pause.)

viii.

October 22, 01:23

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'Please. Please. I-' (Pause. An odd, gutteral, wounded noise.) 'I didn't think- I never thought-'

ix.

October 31, o3:08

 _(Sam cannot take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.)_

'S' been three weeks, Sam. Three fucking weeks. I can't- I can't even imagine what you might be going through. If you're not dead already.' (Pause.) 'I mean, you wouldn't just leave, righ'? I know you wouldn't. Not without telling me. Not without saying goodbye. Not without taking your stuff. We were startin' to be happy, huh? We were jus' startin' to be happy.' (Pause.) 'Please come home, Sammy. Thought I could rescue you. Thought I could- fuck, look at me. Drunk behind a bar in Blue Earth. Not savin' anyone, Sammy, not right now. God. M' so sorry. M' so sorry, Sam. I just- I need a miracle, kiddo. I need you to come back 'cause I can't find you. Miss you so much. 'M so scared that this is it. This could be it, Sam, are you listenin'? This could be it. The last time we saw each other could be the journey back from that ghost hunt, you walkin' into the Bunker. I was wonderin' why you didn't come to bed. I shoulda known. I shoulda known. I shoulda known. I shoulda done somethin'. I should at least have got a proper look at you. Or somethin'. Fuck. If I'd'a just told you to come to bed with me maybe you wouldn' have been-' (Pause.) 'We could have been asleep in my room righ' now. If I'd jus' asked.' (Pause.) M' so tired, Sam. I just- I need you to find me. If anyone can do it-' (Pause.) 'Please, Sam. Please. Please.'

x.

On November 3, 01:02, Dean tries to leave a message and finds that Sam's voicemail is full.


End file.
